


i was set alight

by blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Godswood, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfyre/pseuds/blackfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the kink meme. prompt: "Jon/Sansa in the godswood".</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was set alight

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted over on my tumblr last month.

They are children of the north and the godswood calls to them, the old gods singing in their blood. She is the last of the Starks and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. The dragon queen had claimed Jon as her nephew, as the son of the dragon prince, smashed with his rubies on the Trident. It is odd to think of Jon as a cousin, as a dragon, rather than her half-brother (her cheeks flush when she thinks of a younger girl chirping _bastard brother_ ).

Her bannermen have accepted Jon as Lyanna’s child and her as their lady. Now she knows how Aunt Lysa felt while hers clamor for her hand, her claim, to try and tear Winterfell and the North from her. She cannot have that. The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years and she will not give any of her bannermen rule over her.

She thinks of Lysa’s words, “We are women alone now, you and I,” and how Lysa fell without a word out the Moon Door. Sansa has no woman left to call her family. She is alone and the wind is cold and brittle against her bones.

Jon is here to seal the alliance, seal her fealty to the Dragon Queen and her heir. Sansa gives up her queenship but keeps her crown. She is Lady of Winterfell and iron and bronze keep her safe. She finds herself in the godswood, kneeling in the falling snow in front of the weirwood tree, praying for peace, praying for an end to this winter. She hears the crunching of the snow as Jon approaches (for who else would come out to pray in this weather? Only a Stark would but Jon is not a Stark, not when the dragons claim him).

“Sometimes I see Bran, when I pray,” she speaks gazing at the tree, Jon stopping a foot or so behind her. “I see him in the tree.” She turns to look at Jon, snow falling in hair, dressed in black (now with red).

Jon kneels beside her, taking her cold, bare hand in his glove, “I saw him once. In a dream. A tree had his face and he spoke to me.”  


The dragons may have claimed him, but he has the blood of First Men running through him, the old gods, and blood of a skinchanger (yes, Sansa knows those whispers and she cried when she first heard, remembering half-dreams of running with Lady so long ago).

She shifts in the snow and lightly dusts off the snow from Jon’s hair. “You belong in the North, Jon. Southron winters do not become you.” 

When he leans forward to kiss her, it is welcome, and her mouth opens under his. Her tongue flits against his and she pushes down the memories of Petyr’s lessons and brings a cold hand to cup the back of his neck, bringing him closer. She does not know what to make of her coldness and Jon’s warmth, but it does not matter when Jon grips her waist with his hands, one spreading up her ribs. 

Sansa wishes for love, for comfort, for a marriage made not for her claim but for her, and Jon knows her. They are not constrained by the former bond of siblings as he had forged with Arya and Robb and she holds no guilt or shame or apprehension in her heart as she lays in the snow, dragging Jon over her.

She traces the scars on his face as he moves his warm hands over her neck, her shoulder, her breast and she _burns_ with desire and she growls into Jon’s mouth, biting at his lip. She does not feel the coldness of the snow but Jon takes off his cloak and spreads it in front of the weirwood for her. He pushes her skirts and layers up, disposing of his gloves, his hands warm on her thighs. Her smallclothes are discarded and his hand rests on her mound, before dipping below, stroking between her folds and spreading her wetness as he thumbs the bundle of nerves at the top of her slit.

She shudders, hips jerking, as Jon kneels before her and bends down to her cunt, the bundled skirts on her stomach almost blocking his head from view. His tongue laps at her, a finger at her clit, and the sensation is overwhelming. Her fingers grip at his scalp, at his curls, moaning and desperate to keep him here, with her. Jon is insistent and thorough and his tongue takes over for his finger and his hands hold at the hips as her climax takes her, keeping her still.

Jon crawls up, shifting more of her skirts, baring her knees to the cold. She is a Stark, built for winter, and it seems fitting that she is sprinkled in snow in the godswood. Her fingers are cold and feel thick and clumsy as she unlaces him, cold fingers wrapping around him, and Jon _hisses_ before his mouth finds hers again, before his warm hand covers hers.

They are no blushing maidens and she arches into him as he thrusts inside her. Her eyes are half-open but she sees the red leaves of the weirwood tree, the white snow, the grey clouds, Jon’s dark hair and black clothes above her and it seems absurd to see the Stark and Targaryen colors in this moment but she meets Jon’s rhythm, memorizing his face. Jon buries his face in her neck, hot breath against her ear, his groan rumbling deep in his throat and Sansa feels it throughout, it almost vibrates, and she sighs softly, fingers digging into his leather tunic.

There is nothing in the godswood but their low moans, their thrusts, and the rustle of the wind. Jon tenses, then thrusts slowly and deliberately, once twice, and spends himself inside her. He half-collapses on her and Sansa welcomes the warmth, the press of his body. She may be the last Stark, but she is not alone.

Sansa knows the game, even if Jon does not, and she knows the mind of the dragon queen, even if they’ve never met. She has unquestioned alliance of Dorne and the Vale, a terrifying grip of fire and blood on the Reach, westerlands, and riverlands – but nothing holds the North. Her dragons shy from the cold, the snow, the winter and the queen knows the Stark words.

Sansa would have Jon stay in Winterfell, stay and be her lord husband, and she is willing to accept the bond to the Iron Throne. Sansa lowers her legs as Jon shifts to her side. His fingers run through her hair and her hand cups his face. “I would claim you for the North,” she whispers, “I do not wish to leave you for the dragons.”


End file.
